


love the one you hold

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Activism, Fluff, HWP, Hugs, M/M, debate on free hugs, free hugs, hugs without plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 02:23:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A red backpack falls on the pavement and comes to meet the broken bottle of beer which has stained their boots and sneakers. Soon, a hand painted sign saying FREE HUGS follows to the ground. The man with the dark circles under his eyes wraps his arms tighter around the slender waist of the revolutionary dressed in red, and raises him in the air, tattering, and they shout and they cry as the blond man spreads his arms open, trying to touch the sky, golden curls and pale skin bathed in the sunlight, allowing the precious air of freedom to finally fill their lungs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love the one you hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrantaireandHisBottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/gifts), [Karolina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karolina/gifts).



> This is ridiculous. I don't know why I wrote it, really.  
> Dedicated to the friends I want to hug here: GrantaireandhisBottle, Karolina and Rose+Vincent!

It was a sunny morning of spring and the most frequent passer-byes of St. Michel would notice his presence again. There he was, in his scruffy old boots and his olive green sweater, hanging loosely on his thin shoulders, old and patched, in a slightly better state than his torn, stained black jeans. His dark curls were wild and his cheeks rough and unshaven. One could notice the dark circles under his pale blue eyes, the small, faintly sarcastic smile on his thin, chapped lips, which barely ever reached his shadowed, somehow melancholic glance. Sometimes a beer bottle could be seen in one hand, and he could easily pass for a homeless man, if his other hand wasn’t always occupied with an artistically painted sign saying FREE HUGS.

 

The man was usually frowned upon, most of the people walked past him in a busy manner, without even shooting him a second glance, working men and women in their suits, ties and pencil skirts, tourists in a rush, he was used to the disapproving glances from the elderly, the annoyed “tsk’s” many people produced with their tongues, sometimes the secretly hesitant faces of desire for a hug. But there always were the ones, never too many but always important, hugs he managed to give.

 

There were many types of hugs and he knew he still hadn’t experienced all of them. The hesitant, the awkward, the absent minded, the bear hugs, the comfort hugs and the needy hugs. The hit-on ones were very few: he was not an attractive man at all and most of the time he had had more than enough to drink, though once he definitely had felt a boner pressing against his thigh.

 

His first hug came from an old lady, of the ones who seem to have been born with one sole destiny: to become grandmothers and knit socks and bake cookies. It smelt of powder and old attics with chests full of treasures of floral dresses and pendant necklaces that carried lost youths and dances in fairs. She smiled and her wrinkled face lit up and she rubbed his back comfortingly. She was soft and her head barely reached his shoulder: it made him feel serenely warm in the inside. After that, old ladies were pretty frequent.

 

School girls were frequent as well. Sometimes they slightly scared or annoyed him, but most of the time their giggling, their fresh faces and enthusiastic embraces cheered him up.

 

There were quite a few tourists and businessmen as well. Stressed, neatly dressed and shaved, smelling of expensive colognes, needed to awkwardly throw their arms around someone and pat them in the back.

 

Then, there were a few couples crushing him between them, full of love and happiness, and he didn’t know whether it felt entirely right or completely wrong, but he appreciated it anyway. He’d never forget the huge hug he’d shared with three people: a bald guy and a curvy girl, both of whom had dark skin, and a tall, thin, cautious guy in a crisp white shirt and with a medical bag in his hand. All three of them seemed to be in love with each other.

 

There was the huge man who pulled him in a bone breaking, bear hug, and the ginger who tried to sell him hand painted fans. They recognized the paint stains on each other’s fingers. His hug was strong and soothing. The beautiful blond girl who resembled an angel would hug him all the time. She smelt of cake and summer, and sometimes her freckled boyfriend would join them uncertainly, hugging with one arm, some others her white-haired father would be with her and eye them cautiously.

 

He would never forget the very few little children allowed by their parents and brave enough to approach him, that tiny girl with the dark curls and the rosy cheeks and the toothless smile who had thrown her chubby arms around his knees, so soft and sweet and innocent. He would never forget the man with the braided hair, the floral jeans and the huge sweater who had joined him for a day, and gave hugs to people. His eyes were so warm and melancholic at the same time, his hugs extremely comforting, smelling of flowers and tea. An extremely friendly hipster with a bowtie, whose hugs immediately made them cheerful and energetic, pulled the flower man into a kiss on the lips, causing him to blush violently and melt into it. He followed the hipster but they didn’t lose contact. He’d return and show him his poetry every now and then.

 

He would never forget that time when he’d kneeled and threw his arms around an invalid in her wheelchair. The smile that appeared on her face, her quirky, lively green eyes, empty after the years, made him drink too much that night.

 

The hugs of the clochards in the metro stations of the Grands Boulevards and of Bonne Nouvelle made him drink too. They smelled awfully even for him and their long beards scratched his skin but they spoke a thousand words of wisdom in that simple gesture, every movement slow and thoughtful, they didn’t have anywhere to go or anyone to wait for them anyway.

 

There was that girl with the thick knotted black hair, dark circles that matched his own under her tired eyes and bruises all over her face and neck. Her embrace smelt of cigarettes and it was full of bones, on her shoulders, on her elbows and hips. A few burning tears stained his sweater and then she swore under her breath and walked away. He drank very much that night again.

 

There was that night when he’d drunk so much that he dozed off in the street. A medical student about his age who seemed to have just finished his shift, still in his white scrubs, asked if he needed help to return to his sleazy apartment, and after buying him a coffee, he kneeled beside him and pulled him into a comforting hug that smelt of soap and wool. It was exactly what he needed, and for once in his life he felt ashamed.

 *

He sees the blond student with the red jacket that morning, walking out of the metro with a canvas backpack hanging from his shoulder. He must be a Greek God. Or an angel, with a golden halo surrounding his beautiful face. Whatever the fuck he is, he’s surreal, it’s morning and he’s already had two beers. It’s impossible for him to look away, to convince himself to hold his sign up and continue what he was doing, he’s intoxicated or something of that sort and his arms ache to behold some of the light and the Sun and the man seems like he needs it too, he definitely needs it, there is a slight frown on his face yet still an insanely attractive one and he look so tensed, so cold, like a marble statue.

 

His hands feel limp and the sign falls on his side. The people around him immediately forget about him again and for once he feels free and not denied, he feels free and his breath hitches on his throat as the thump of his boots on the pavement quickens and he elbows his way between the walking crowds to reach him. His feet lead the way, he just has to.

 

A breath, a step, a mind which should be functioning quickly but instead it has completely stopped. He doesn’t dare speak. Their ways meet, so do their eyes. He subconsciously raises his sign. He knows the man has noticed, he stops for a minute. He remains there, breathless for a while.

 

Next there is a cop, that tall middle aged with the graying sleek hair who watches everything and everyone around there. The cop tries to make him leave but he scares him away by throwing his arms around his neck, pulling him in a bear hug. Before he can look back, the man with the golden halo has disappeared down to the subway station.

 

*

 

He passes again the next morning on his way to meet his friends. It is Saturday which means that he doesn’t have classes, yet he is still busy thinking about the protest rally they are preparing. Deeply lost into his thoughts, he almost doesn’t notice the same unshaven, worn man with the same teasing smile which doesn’t reach his pale blue eyes, the same sign above his head and even the same green sweater, as he notes in disgust while almost stumbling upon him. He wonders whether the man is homeless. He probably is, or so his appearance suggests. He immediately feels pity mixed with some sort of annoyance for the stupid thing he does, he’s seen a few people hugging him and he’s seen him hugging a cop: that most definitely added to his dislike, or discomfort, he isn’t exactly sure how he feels about such actions in the middle of rue St. Michel.

 

He tries to deny the man’s piercing, cold glance on him and concentrate on everything he’s going to discuss in the meeting, yet in his horror, after they almost trip on each other, the man addresses him, even though he wishes he would be wrong.

 

“Hey, you?”

 

The discomfort grows stronger and as they’re trapped between a crowd of Asian tourists near the bridge, he eventually realizes it’s impossible to pretend he didn’t see him. He stops still avoiding his glance. “Excuse me? Are you talking to me?”

 

“Yes you, the mighty Apollo with the backpack!”

 

He feels a violent blush covering his cheeks and he turns to leave, rather irritated. “I’m afraid you are mistaking me for someone else,” he says coolly, and in dismay he realizes that the man has started following him, holding the colorful FREE HUGS sign on the level of his chest. “I’m afraid I am not,” he says and his smile becomes slightly mischievous.

 

“How can I help you?” he knows he sounds impatient but he doesn’t really feel bad about it.

 

“I want to hug you.”  

 

He stares at him incredulously, almost forgetting how to breathe. “This is ridiculous.”

 

The man smirks. “It’s not. It’s what I’ve been doing the past few days.”

 

“That does not make it non ridiculous. Not to offend you, but it seems like a rather pointless occupation, if you want my opinion. Why wouldn’t you search for a proper job?”

 

“Do _you_ have a proper job, Apollo?” he raises an eyebrow.

 

“Don’t _call_ me that,” his cheeks have literally started to burn in anger. “I’m a student with a leading role in a political activist organization. I think that makes me far from a burden to society.”

 

“Well maybe, but I believe in very few many things, and organized activism isn't one of them.”

 

“You most definitely wouldn’t believe in our cause,” he says coolly, “but what you’re doing yourself would inevitably be characterized as activism.”

 

“It isn’t activism. It just makes people happy. Hugs are my cause!”

 

“That’s what activism is about, even though I doubt _hugs_ make a homeless, hungry man happy in all the right ways when he needs much more than that to survive.”

 

“Yes, but they would make a rich pissed off young boy _happy,_ wouldn’t they?”

 

The man faintly smells of alcohol, as he notes disgustedly. “They wouldn’t. Social equality would make me happy. Global peace would make me happy. Freedom of mind would make me happy. Hugs wouldn’t.”

 

“Freedom of hugs is what I fight about!” the man shouted mockingly and attracted the attention of many bewildered or amused passer-byes. “You haven’t seen their eyes, their smiles. You don’t know what it means to them.” His eyes are cold blue and lack every conviction yet in that moment they seem to burn with a fire. “You don’t know how a hug can change one’s day, how the contact and the warmth and the friction can comfort them, make them laugh and cry in relief, remember and forget.” His voice becomes a whisper. “It is love, Apollo. Love makes people happy.”

 

“ _This_ isn’t love.” Oh, he feels so annoyed, the man is misguided, so misguided, and he is late, so fuckin’ late. “That’s the main problem. You’re mocking the object and the true meaning of love that way. This doesn’t mean anything to you, you feel equally numb and careless for everyone you hug, it’s the same for all of them, so impersonal, and you hardly offer them anything.”

 

The man’s voice comes out dangerously hoarse. “You are wrong, Apollo.” The smile on his face becomes almost… tender as he lowers the sign. “You say you care for the people yet it seems to me that you care for the mass, not for every individual. It made the old widow happy, it made the clochard believe in the flower power again, it gave the poet his true love, it gave the invalid that glorious smile. I try with much more less people than you do everyday, yet even if I manage to bring such a glorious smile to two or three faces, then hell, my job is done, even though I don’t always enjoy it.”

 

He stares at him, a deathly silence entrapping them both, despite the crowds and the noise around them. “I don’t believe in your cause,” the man in the stained sweater says. He turns his back to leave but he feels a strong grip on his arm. “But I want to hug you. You seem like you need it.”

 

He tries to breathe. He is annoyed and it feels wrong and it shouldn’t and he’s late, so _fuckin’_ late. “Excuse me sir, but I don’t believe in your cause either,” he says in a fierce voice, and frees his arm from the strange man’s grip. Hugging his bag he walks away, between the people, heading to the café near Notre Dame where he’ll meet with his friends. He doesn’t look back, and if he did, he’d see a lowered sign writing FREE HUGS, bowing in defeat.

 

*

 

Days pass and he doesn’t know exactly how he feels about his conversation with the probably homeless man. He has tried very hard to shove it out of his mind, yet it keeps drowning him to confusing thoughts. Whenever it returns to his head, he tries his best to ignore his friends’ eyes. He has been to rue St. Michel again yet he was nowhere to be seen. He knows that the man faced problems with that cop, and surprisingly enough, in a way he wouldn’t dare admit, he feels rather disappointed that he won’t see him ever again.

 

His friends notice how absent minded he is sometimes, yet he can’t stop thinking about it. What did the hugs mean for the man? Could it be that he needed them too as much as he claimed people did? Could it be that he needed to lean in strangers’ arms?

 

But one day he realizes that his bespectacled friend knows about the man too. He talks to him of a day when he found him drunk and helped him to his apartment; it appears that he isn’t homeless after all.

 

 _Drunk,_ he thinks with disgust. No, it couldn’t be. He didn’t need the hugs. He didn’t care. He was a drunkard, a cynic. He didn’t believe. He just needed attention. He was nothing but a street performer; Paris is full of those.

 

Days pass and he almost manages to forget of their strange encounter.

 

And then one morning he wakes up to open the newspaper and feel his heart sinking, and sinking lower, and he feels anger boiling in his body as he’s faced with the cruelty of the world surrounding him once again.

 

At moments like these he feels weak and strong at the same time. He can’t change the world at once, it’s true, but he must start trying to change parts of it.

 

And suddenly he’s running outside, in a metro station and then outside, changing three lines, seeing the homeless people sleeping in blankets in the cold, sleazy platforms and he throws coins to them as his heart races madly in his chest, he doesn’t have time to buy them food as he usually does, not today, because today is strange and today he just doesn’t _know._

 

He just runs and runs, life blurry around him, cafés, bistros and brasseries, souvenir shops and busy businessmen and then here he is, he sees the man holding his sign on one hand outside the metro of Saint Michel-Notre Dame, a beer in the other and he’s looking around with empty, pale blue eyes, and the circles underneath, God, they are so dark and deep, his sweatshirt is grey and his jeans torn and as he looks at him he remembers all the images from the newspaper and he knows, on that moment he knows he _can_ start changing the world from little parts of it and he knows, on that moment he knows that the man is trying to do the same even though he’s unaware of the fact.

 

No one is hugging the man at the moment, and he’s standing still, unmoved, between the busy, frantic crowds.

 

He stops on the other side of the pavement, his hand on his chest, panting, and their eyes meet, between the walking people separating them. His heart almost stops as the world grows silent around them, and for a few agonizing breaths they stare at each other, and in the dark haired man he sees what he can and what he would never dare change.

 

*

 

In a heartbeat, everything becomes clear around him. The Greek God with the golden halo and the red checkered shirt is running through the crowd in what seems like a slow motion movie scene, and the beer bottle falls from his hand, before the beautiful boy throws his arms around him, and suddenly everything becomes clear in his blurry, drunken head and he can see Paris in all its glory, Haussman’s architecture, young couples holding hands, grandparents with adopted dark skinned happy grandchildren, people in love hanging padlocks from the Pont de l’Archevêché, the small cafés, the shining sun and the cool breeze of spring, everything becomes glorious because he stares at everything through golden locks which cover his vision and lighten his world in a way it’s never been lightened before. They lean into each other and press their bodies together, ignoring the hordes of people who pass near them, and it’s warm, warmer than it’s ever been before as their heartbeats pound against their ribcages, chests sharing the same ragged, greedy breaths of oxygen, arms struggling together, hands comfortingly rubbing backs and chins resting on shoulders, a mass of golden and black curls, of cigarettes, alcohol, charcoal and soap pulling a true revolution, demanding and gaining the most precious equality. Their fingers entangle and their foreheads come to rest together as small, innocent smiles of freedom and peace appear on their faces.

 

A red backpack falls on the pavement and comes to meet the broken bottle of beer which has stained their boots and sneakers. Soon, a hand painted sign saying FREE HUGS follows to the ground. The man with the dark circles under his eyes wraps his arms tighter around the slender waist of the revolutionary dressed in red, and raises him in the air, tattering, and they shout and they cry as the blond man spreads his arms open, trying to touch the sky, golden curls and pale skin bathed in the sunlight, allowing the precious air of freedom to finally fill their lungs.

 

In this moment, he swears they believe. 


End file.
